


Move Still

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Dancing, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Angst, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr hates dancing, but has a very specific reason for throwing a ball...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Move Still

**Author's Note:**

> For ike who's getting slammed with school right now, and who cheered me on as I pushed painfully through writer's block to try and write something. Anything.

> _when you do dance, I wish you_  
>  _A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do_  
>  _Nothing but that; move still, still so,_  
>  _And own no other function._
> 
> William Shakespeare

 

Erik was elbow deep in cow manure when Janos came to find him. The fence in the north west pasture had been washed out with the storm the night before, and the rain had barely abated before Sean Cassidy came to find him in a panic, covered tip to toe in mud and ranting about his lost cattle. A day that was meant to be spent in the privacy of his study, mentally preparing himself for the night to come, was instead spent rounding up stray cows from the country lane and laying down the new fence posts around the Cassidy farm.

He was aware of his sodden shirt, his ruined trousers and sweaty hair as he raised a hand to Janos in greeting. His steward, solemn and tactful as ever, only tipped his head in greeting.

“It’s nearly time, my Lord.”

Erik nodded and returned to his task, hammering in the final post before collecting Hephaestus’ reins and climbing into the saddle, wearily turning toward home. He spared a final glance toward the farmers as they finished wiring the fence, their laughter and heartfelt insults drifting over the field in the fading sun. His heart longed to stay with them, to head to the public house and drink a well-deserved beer, to wash and sleep clean for once. Instead he turned toward the looming stone buttresses of Thornfield hall and tried to gather his second wind.

The manor was aflutter with preparations for the ball and his staff had spared him barely a glance as he peeled off his muddy boots and trudged through the courtyard in his stocking feet. His people knew better than to trouble him with questions or sideways looks, knowing that he cared little for propriety and decorum, and less for social gatherings like this one. Indeed, when he had proposed the ball to Kitty, his housekeeper had gaped at him for a full minute before collecting herself and assuring him she’d take charge of the arrangements.

To his relief, a warm bath was waiting for him when he arrived at his rooms and he wasted no time in stripping and sliding into the copper tub with a sigh. Janos, ever thoughtful, arrived with a glass of wine, and Erik forced himself to drink the alcohol slowly, savouring the dark flavor as the warm water seeped into his bones, dispelling the chill and toil of the day from his bones.

He was in better spirits by the time the water had cooled, though still not eager to face the night before him. He was resigned, however, and allowed Janos to dress him in his best suit: black silk breeches and tails, and his favourite red waistcoat. He inspected himself in front of the glass, dawdling until the sound of a carriage clattering up the stone lane could be heard through the open window. He heaved a sigh and smoothed a final hand down the lapels of his jacket.

“Once more unto the breach, sir?” Janos murmured from the door, swinging it open to reveal the candlelit hallway beyond. Erik braced himself and nodded, and reminded himself why he had suggested this infernal ball in the first place.

As the guests began to arrive it became harder and harder to remember, the endless fawning and shaking of hands treading upon his already limited patience. He had taken up station by the entrance to the ballroom as protocol required, greeting each highbred lord or lady with his customary frown. His cold manner wasn’t enough to deter the enthusiasm as they fluttered past him like well-groomed peacocks, twittering about the grandeur of the hall, open for the first time to prying eyes.

He was ready to quit his station, protocol be damned, when a familiar laugh caught his ear. He craned his neck past the ostentatious feathered headpiece of the lady before him and sure enough there was Charles, shrugging off his coat and clasping Alex on the arm with inappropriate familiarity as he handed it over, laughing at the valet’s words. Erik grinned despite himself, and the lady whose hand he clasped recoiled slightly. She dropped a hasty curtsy and dragged her husband away, leaving Erik with a clear line of sight to Charles as he offered his arm to Raven, his eyes already meeting Erik’s with a conspiratorial glint.

The last time he had laid eyes on Charles he had been in the centre of the study at Greymalkin amidst an eruption of books as he ironed out the final pieces of his dissertation. There had been a certain mania around his edges, dressed in worn shirtsleeves and trousers, his beard growing in red, his hands stained in ink. It was a marked difference to how he looked now, clean-shaven and shining, his face bright and luminous against the dark velvet of his formal dress.

“My dear friend,” he said, detaching himself from Raven in order to eagerly take Erik’s hand. “To think I ever doubted you.”

“Yes, Charles was quite sure you’d cancel the whole thing at the eleventh hour.” Raven grinned at him slyly before dipping in a short curtsy. He bowed to her in return and laughed.

“I very nearly did.”

Charles opened his mouth to reply, and was silenced as another troupe of guests arrived, pushing their way toward their host.

“Good luck,” he murmured, before tugging Raven away. Erik, longing to follow them, turned instead to the group gathering around him and forced a pleasant greeting from his lips.

 As much as he wished he could seek out the company of Charles and his sister, his duties as host forced him to remain outside the ballroom until the final guest had arrived. Even then he had to perform his due diligence and cycle through clusters of aristocrats who assaulted him with their endless prattling small talk. When the strains of violins filtered through the parlor, calling all the guests to the dance floor, Erik very nearly felt relieved. As he followed the flow of people through toward the ballroom, he caught sight of Charles watching him from beneath the curved wooden archway of the door.

“Is your dance card full, Mr. Lehnsherr?” He asked, his smile full of mischief. He joined Erik’s progress and Erik found his feet slowing, his stride shortening to make the hall seem longer.

“I think you’ll find it quite empty, Mr. Xavier,” he replied dryly.

“Empty!” Charles exclaimed, causing the elderly couple moving glacially past them to cast him a disapproving look. Charles continued loudly, oblivious as always. “But every girl in the county has set her cap at you!” Erik tried to remind himself that rolling his eyes would be giving into Charles’ teasing.

“And you know better than anyone how little I care for dancing.”

Charles laughed. “Yes, I remember the ball in Dorset. Not even the infamous charms of the Lady Frost could sway your cold, unfeeling heart.” They paused at the corner leading toward the ballroom just beyond the swell of noise, the layers of exuberant voices and musicians readying their instruments. They were the only two left in the hall, aside from the servants flanking the doors, and for one swollen moment Erik wished he could spirit the two of them away to his study for a quiet night of drink and conversation in front of the fire like always. Instead he asked,

“And you? Do you plan to dance every dance again tonight like you did in Dorset?” In the ballroom, Erik could hear the Master of Ceremonies calling the dancers to take their places. Charles face lit up, and he cast one more smile and parting shot at Erik before he stepped away.

“Unlike some, Mr. Lehnsherr, I thoroughly enjoy a good dance.”

***

Hours later Thornfield hall was silent and still, though Erik imagined he could still hear the strains of laughter and violins echoing off the ancient stone walls. The fire helped ease the ache in his bones, his formal posture relaxing at last, and the good Irish whiskey Charles handed to him helped to soothe the grinding headache at his temples.

“You survived,” Charles said with a grin, flopping into the chair across from him.

“Barely.”

“Oh come now,” Charles laughed, leaning forward to reset the chess board between them, setting his own glass of whiskey next to the scattered pawns, “Was it really that bad?”

Erik downed his drink in one long swallow and stood to make another. “You weren’t the one poked and prodded at all night like a prize pig at a fair.” He uncorked the bottle of whiskey and took a moment to savour the firelight on the glass as it turned the drink to liquid gold, the silence of the room broken only by the soft clatter of chess pieces across the board. “I thought the Duchess of Kent was going to inspect my teeth, even after I rejected her invitation to dance.”

Charles snorted. “One might wonder why you chose to host a ball at all, when you hate to dance so much.”

Erik froze, the bottle of whiskey in one hand, his empty glass in the other. Though his eyes were focused on the wooden bookcase beyond the small bar, he saw nothing, the inscribed spines bleeding together in a blur of leather and ink. All at once he was consumed with the image of Charles only hours earlier as he took another turn on the dance floor, his steps light and graceful, his face incandescent as he smiled openly at his sister as they spun around one another. Erik had stood against the wall and watched him move effortlessly through patterns and space, watched him laugh and whisper to his partner as he swept past and felt himself cast further into shadow.

“Erik?”

He realized suddenly that he had been motionless for far too long and forced himself to pour two fingers into his glass and recork the bottle with steady hands. “Is everything alright?” Charles asked again, and when Erik turned back he was forced to look upon him, pale skin painted in firelight, cravat pulled loose around his throat, his hair in disrepair.

The words he had too often swallowed down leapt into his mouth and he nearly choked on them, a night of watchful yearning crumbling his defenses, but he managed to work his tongue around the lump in his throat.

“Yes, fine. Apologies. I’m tired.”

As he moved back to his seat he avoided Charles’ shrewd gaze upon his face. He was sure his friend could see every thought painted there, every latent emotion he kept buried in his traitorous heart.

“It’s a lady, isn’t it,” Charles said finally, leaning backward in his chair with a grin. “You have your sights set on a young lady and you arranged this ball to impress her.”

The words caught him so off-guard that he sputtered mid-swallow, whiskey burning through the back of his throat and across his tongue. Charles smiled triumphantly as he coughed and tried to catch his breath, though through Erik’s watering eyes the smile looked cold and sharp.  

“I can assure you, there is no young lady,” he rasped, swallowing again until his throat was clear.

“There’s no need to hide it from me any longer, Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles sang, haughty and teasing, “I know everything now.”

“You always _think_ you know everything – “

“No need for secrets between friends - what’s her name? Do I know her?”

“No – “

“Oh! So she is a stranger to me. Hmm – and here I thought I had made the acquaintance of every eligible young lady in the county – “

“Enough!” The word burst from his chest without thought or preparation. His ears were ringing with Charles’ questions, each one cutting to the heart of the truth within his chest. He was aware, distantly, that he was breathing heavily, that his face was red and surely creased in a furious expression. The room was quiet in the wake of his outburst, a roar of silence that seemed to create a chasm between them.

“My dear friend,” Charles said at last, low and hesitant and full of remorse, “I hadn’t realized she meant so much to you. My apologies. I was not my intention to jest so cruelly.”

Across the room the ancient clock struck the hour, a single, resounding collision of brass signaling one o’clock. Charles sighed, and the air seemed to deflate him all at once like a bellows blowing into the fire.

“It’s late. I should retire.” He smiled again, this time hesitant and broken around the edges. “I’ve tread upon your hospitality long enough.”

“You fool,” Erik muttered as Charles stood to leave. He wasn’t sure if he wanted him to hear him or not, but when Charles paused and turned to look at him in surprise, he couldn’t stop himself from saying it again, from allowing everything to pour from him finally, a torrent after a drought. “You fool. How can you be so blind? How can someone so brilliant be so obstinately blind?” Charles stared at him, shocked and confused, and Erik glared back, suddenly furious.

“How can you not see that it’s _you_? Did you not see how my eyes were drawn to you all night? How can you know everything and not know how I longed to touch your hand? How I longed to take you in my arms? It’s you, Charles. It’s always been you.” Unable to bear looking at Charles any longer, he stood and turned away from him in anguish, leaning one hand against the mantle and allowing the fire’s heat to engulf him. He wished he could toss his body into the flames and burn himself to ash.

Behind him, he could hear Charles take one hesitant step forward.

“You…you threw this ball...for me?” Erik shut his eyes. So this torture was to continue. So be it.

“Yes,” he replied. Charles’ boots scraped across the stone floor as he took another step forward. He was near enough that his next words ghosted across the curve of Erik’s spine, hot even through the thick velvet of his jacket.

“You love me?”

There was nothing left in him but honest words. Everything else had been hollowed out. What was one more confession?

“Yes.”

There was a long pause, and then Charles’ voice saying, “Erik,” one word full of hope and a desperate plea. Erik was turning to look at him before he could stop himself and there was Charles, his eyes huge and blue and lit with fire, his mouth trembling as he whispered,

“I’ve loved you for years. Oh my friend. I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

Before he was finished speaking he was in Erik’s arms, the last words spoken against the pulse of Erik’s throat, and Erik held him close, the embrace growing tighter and more desperate as he fought to comprehend this strange and wonderful new reality.

It was a long time before they let go of one another. The fire died low as they held each other close, whispering affection and reassurances to one another. It was nearly embers when Charles leaned back and tracked his eyes across Erik’s face, measuring his features one by one and the leaning in slowly to press a kiss upon his lips. Erik almost wept from the swell of joy that rose up in his breast, and reached out to pull Charles closer, to clutch the moment tightly for fear it was all a perfect dream.

Finally Charles drew back and touched his forehead against Erik’s cheek, keeping them close.

“I still can’t believe you threw a ball. You hate to dance. You hate _people_.”

Erik stroked a palm down his back, feeling out the bones of his spine, the wings of his shoulderblades.

“Not all people.” Charles snorted inelegantly, and Erik felt as though his face might split with the force of his smile, his joy. “And you love to dance.”

Charles tipped his head back to look up at him, and after a moment’s thought, smiled slowly.

“That’s right. I do.” He stepped back, untangling himself from Erik’s arms, and bowed dramatically, extending one hand toward Erik with a cheeky grin.

“Mr. Lehnsherr. Might you do me the honour of joining me in this dance?”

Erik stared at him incredulously.

“No.”

Charles beckoned with his outstretched hand, still bent low at the waist. Erik shook his head, unable to stop himself from smiling.

“There’s no music!”

“Erik,” Charles demanded, and the sound of his Christian name from Charles’ mouth was enough to make him sigh and take his hand.

“Can you waltz, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Charles asked, pulling Erik closer and placing a hand low on his waist. The space between them was charged with electricity, and Erik was all too aware of Charles’ mouth below his, of the expansion of his chest with each inhalation, the warmth of his skin where their hands touched. All at once the world felt bright and full of possibility, even in the dark quiet of the library, the ticking of the clock mingled with the beating of his heart.

“Let’s find out,” he replied, and followed Charles as he took his first steps.

 


End file.
